Troth
by Northumbrian
Summary: Fame and infamy are closely related. Reputations are not always what they seem. Lavender Brown has a lot of explaining to do.


**Troth**

_**Weather Vane – a column by Romilda Vane**__ (from the Daily Prophet, Saturday 29__th__ March 2008)_

_The drunken exploits, questionable relationships, and romantic misadventures of Lavender Brown, the infamous werewolf Auror once featured regularly in this column. It has, however, been some time since any account of Miss Brown's exploits appeared._

_Whatever happened to the werewolf with a penchant for peccadilloes, a need for naughtiness, a desire for drink, and a fondness for… Let's not go there in a family newspaper. Could it be that she has decided to settle down, or is it simply that she has now learned how to conceal her continuing conquests? Could it be both? Does the answer lie in the Engagements column of yesterday's Prophet?_

Mr Mark Moon and Miss Lavender Brown

The engagement is announced between Mark, son of Mrs Eileen Moon, of Kirkcudbright, Kirkcudbrightshire, and Lavender, daughter of Mr and Mrs Donald Brown, of Rye, Sussex.

_Can it be true? Has the werewolf Auror discovered domesticity? Is she really about to mend her errant ways?_

_Lavvy, as her few friends and many lovers call her, has been linked with many of the country's most eligible bachelors over the years. Even during her school days, her torrid affair with former Auror and co-owner of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes Ron Weasley was the gossip of the school. This was the first of her many dalliances with the rich and famous._

_Harry Potter has always strenuously denied rumours of any liaison. But eight years ago, when the woman who is now his wife was in trouble with her club because of her wild behaviour, Harry vanished. Days later Lavvy also vanished. Neither has ever denied that they spent time together, and soon after their return Harry pulled several strings to get her onto the Auror training programme. In the years which followed he defended her appointment with a fanaticism that can surely mean only one thing. Lavvy has some mysterious hold over the man who is now Head Auror._

_Over the following years Lavvy was linked to a number of rich and powerful young wizards. From Muggle-born entrepreneur Justin Finch-Fletchley to Cormac, the heir to the McLaggen fortune, it seems that many wizards can claim a "close personal acquaintance" with Miss Brown. There are also rumours of her wild nights with random Muggles._

_The only wizard prepared to discuss his relationship with Lavvy provided me with a lot of information. Unfortunately most of it is unprintable. My source, who wishes to remain anonymous, claimed that she was both insatiable and inventive. It seems that what Lavvy lacks in looks she makes up for in enthusiasm._

_What of the mysterious Mr Moon? Who is the man who is prepared to marry a woman famous for being a werewolf, an Auror, and a man-eater?_

_Like Lavvy, Moon works for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Is he perhaps a high flying bureaucrat? No. Is he a fellow Auror? No. Moon is a Law Office Bailiff, a low-ranking and simple plod who investigates magical misdemeanours for the Office of the High Sheriff of Scotland._

_Is he rich? Not on a Bailiff's wage. Is he handsome? Plain, homely, or even weird-looking are the descriptions I've been given. Is he famous? Of course not! Until yesterday's announcement he was an unknown. Moon is merely the son of a long-deceased werewolf and a Muggle woman. What does Lavvy see in him? Perhaps wolf-blood runs in his veins too._

_I've been told that Lavvy and Moon have been together for several years. Can this be true? And if it is, does he know what happened when she accompanied Minister Shacklebolt to the USA last month. Sources tell me that, during the Minister's visit with the Head of the US Department of Magic, Attorney Magical Villiers, Lavvy became very close indeed to an Agent of the Federal Bureau of Illumination, a man named Jose Wonders. Close enough to be seen leaving his room after midnight, wearing one of his shirts._

* * *

Auror Susan Bones opened the door to the ladies toilets, strode inside and, annunciating as clearly and precisely as she always did, announced, 'Romilda Vane is a lying bitch. Don't let her get to you, Lavvy in the lavvy.'

Susan never swore, and rarely joked. Surprised by her friend and workmate's comments, Lavender stifled a sob, and gave a snorting, watery chuckle. 'I wonder who told her about the name?' she said. 'You're the only person who calls me Lavvy.'

'It certainly wasn't me,' said Susan. 'She probably did it just to be hurtful. You know I only call you Lavvy…'

'When I'm trying to annoy you,' said Lavender.

'I was going to say when you call me Sue or Suzy,' said Susan firmly.

'Which is when I'm trying to annoy you,' admitted Lavender. As she spoke, Lavender attempted to dry her tears. Unfortunately, the lace handkerchief she was using was flimsy and impractically, so she simply managed to make a mess of her mascara. Sighing, she walked over to her slim blonde friend and embraced her. 'Thanks,' she whispered. 'I don't deserve you, Susan.'

'We don't always get what we deserve,' said Susan sardonically, looking down at her now mascara-stained white blouse.

'I suppose I deserved the article,' admitted Lavender sadly. 'After all most of it is true.'

'No it is not,' said Susan firmly, taking her friend by the shoulders and looking down into Lavender's startlingly violet, but currently tear-filled, eyes. 'The bit about you and Ron is ridiculous; unless a "torrid affair" is the same as two sixteen-year-old school kids indulging in some unseemly public snogging and groping. As for Harry; we all know what really happened! You were looking for a cure for your injuries, and in the process you got between Harry and a werewolf. If you hadn't taken the bite, Harry would be a werewolf, not you. It was in all the papers at the time, so Romilda has no excuse for printing that nonsense! Perhaps she thinks she can get away with it because Harry's on paternity leave. She'll soon learn how wrong she is.'

'We have had an emergency call, Susan,' said a slightly-accented contralto voice from the door. The young woman who spoke was slender and pale, and her hair was raven-black.

'I've got to go, Lavender,' said Susan. 'Have you any idea who Romilda's informant was?'

'Cormac McLaggen, I expect,' said Lavender, again dabbing at her tears. 'The gossip in the Prophet office is that Romilda is shagging him. She thinks she's good at her job, but I'm a lot better at collecting gossip than she'll ever be. I'll be ready for duty in a minute. What have we got, Camelia?'

'You aren't coming,' said Susan. 'You've got the rest of the day off, I've already cleared it with Terry. Paul Venables is covering for you, and we're taking the Trainee, Ellie Cattermole, too. We _can_ manage without you, you know.'

'Thanks, Susan. I owe you one,' said Lavender worriedly. 'Mark isn't used to this nonsense.' She turned back to the mirror and re-examined her ruined make up. 'I'm a complete mess.'

'You owe me several, and you are,' Susan agreed, pursing her lips disapprovingly. 'I'd almost forgotten what it was like. We haven't had one of these dramas since you and Mark got together. Romilda obviously couldn't find anything against him. That will be why she was so rude about him. You need to reassure him, to tell him that everything Romilda printed was a lie.'

Susan watched in horror as Lavender's mask finally slipped and she again burst into tears. 'Oh, Merlin, Lavender,' she said. 'Please tell me that it _was_ all lies.'

'It's, I… I told him to keep it secret! We didn't… but… I lied to Mark,' Lavender sobbed.

'Damn it, Lavender. You _are_ a fool!' said Susan angrily.

'Susan!' Camelia called urgently.

'Just go,' said Lavender. Giving up on the handkerchief, she wiped her tears with her hand, smearing mascara across her cheek. 'You've got a job to do. This is my mess. I'll sort it out. I hope.'

* * *

When Mark Moon opened his eyes, he was staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. His head ached from an unfamiliar surfeit of booze. As he sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep crust from his eyes, he finally remembered where he was. Groaning, he rolled out of bed and yawned. Hauling himself to his feet, he attempted to stretch. He failed, as the ceiling was much too low.

Mark had been too drunk to Apparate home. The tiny cottage where he'd spent the night was the home of his friend—and soon to be best man—Rhys Owen. After pulling on his jeans and t-shirt, he ducked his head, pulled open the curtains in the dormer window and peered out across the valley. In the distance he could just make out the rooftops of the Muggle town of Llanrwst.

'Morning, Hlanroost,' he muttered, trying to remember how to pronounce the town's name.

In the local pub the previous evening, Rhys had tried to teach Mark the correct pronunciation. Mark had drunkenly complained about the Welsh nation's apparent dislike of vowels, but he'd eventually achieved a standard acceptable to his friend. Still yawning, Mark stumbled down the steep wooden stairs which brought him directly into the bright living room. Rhys hastily closed the Daily Prophet he'd been reading, and tried to hide it under the table.

They were a mismatched pair. Mark was a tall, lean and lanky Scot, whereas Rhys was a short, stocky and burly Welshman. They had been friends for eight years and knew each other well, possibly too well.

'Morning, Mark,' said Rhys.

'Why're you hiding the paper? Mark asked.

'I'm not,' Rhys lied unconvincingly. He carefully closed the paper and placed it on the table. 'What will you be wanting for breakfast?' he asked, standing and moving into his kitchen.

'Tea and toast would be grand,' said Mark, picking up the paper and beginning to rifle through it. 'It would save me some time if you told me what you were…' he stopped, and stared at the unflattering five-year-old photograph of his obviously inebriated fiancée. 'Found it,' he said sadly.

'I'm sure it's not true,' called Rhys from his tiny kitchen. 'I mean "lack of looks"? Bloody gorgeous, your girl, isn't she? Jealous, this reporter must be.' Mark didn't answer. As he read the article he first snorted, then chuckled, then gave a few sad tuts. Finally he swore.

'Ma folks are a lang-deceased werewolf and Muggle woman,' said Mark, angrily lapsing into his lilting Scottish brogue. 'Whet a coo!'

'She's a cow, all right,' Rhys agreed as he continued to clatter around his kitchen. 'Why drag your parents into it? You're not worried about … about anything else she says?'

'No,' said Mark. 'It's all either before we were together, or lies, or both. And Head Auror Potter willnae be happy wi' her, either!'

'Him? What about the rest of us?' Rhys asked. He peered around the open door and grinned. 'D'you want marmalade, you simple Scottish plod?'

'Aye, that'll be grand, ye dozy Welsh plod,' said Mark chuckling. He sat and reread the article.

A few minutes later Rhys returned to the living room with a tray containing a rack of toast, butter, marmalade, a huge teapot, and two blue and white striped mugs.

'She's off her trolley, it is,' said Rhys. 'We both know that Sheriff's officers don't have the glamour of the Aurors, but somebody has to pick up the burglars and thieves and drunks.'

'And stop the brawls and sort out the domestics,' added Mark as he began buttering some toast.

'Yes,' Rhys agreed. 'You're walking okay, now. Legs fully mended are they?'

'Yeah,' Mark nodded. 'Sometimes getting in the way of a domestic can be dangerous. Did I tell you about the Hawick incident last night?'

'Yes,' said Rhys. 'In all its gruesome detail, you did. But you were pretty drunk when you told me. And that reminds me! You spent half the night complaining about Welsh place names, and yet you were born in a place called Kirk cud bright and you pronounce it Kerr-koo-bree! And you pronounce Ha-wick as Hoyk. I don't see…'

'Mark?' Lavender's voice came from the other side of the room, from where Mark's jacket hung on a hook. He stood, dashed across to his jacket, and pulled a mirror from his pocket.

'I've seen the paper,' he said cheerfully, staring into the mirror. Lavender, however, wasn't looking at him. She was staring down, her eyes half-closed.

'Where are you?' Lavender asked. 'I'm at your place. I thought that you'd be here. I need to talk to you.' Her voice was low, and trembling.

'I'm at Rhys's,' he said quietly. 'We went out last night, celebrating the fact that he's going to be my best man.'

Lavender let out a nervous whimper.

'I'll be right there,' he told her. 'Bye.'

'Trouble?' Rhys asked.

Mark shrugged. 'I don't know,' he said. 'But I'll find out soon enough. Bye Rhys.' Cramming the remainder of the toast into his mouth, Mark grabbed his jacket and left.

'See you, Mark,' said Rhys, following his friend to the door.

Mark nodded, twisted, and vanished with a loud crack. He Apparated to the bin store behind the weathered stone tenement where he lived. He had left the watery Welsh sunshine behind him and now found himself standing in a bitingly cold northerly howling across the city from the Firth of Forth. He strode around to the door, and ran up the four floors to his top floor flat.

He'd lied to Rhys. He and Lavender had been together for three years, and he knew that a drama was about to unfold. Everything from her downcast eyes and the tremble in her voice had warned him of that. Trying to prepare himself from the emotional onslaught he was about to face, he opened his front door and strode along the hall to his living room. He'd barely entered the room when she pounced.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please forgive, me,' she begged, throwing her arms around him, her cheekbone pressed against his sternum.

He looked down at her curly brown hair, and threw his arms around her.

'What have you done?' he asked the top of her head.

She buried her face in his chest and began to cry, he could do no more than continue to hold her tightly. His heart began to race as he thought about the article. His initial hope that Lavender was simply upset by the hurtful things Romilda Vane had said about his parents and him, was obviously wrong. She wasn't comforting him; he was comforting her, but why? Her activities before they had met or, more correctly, before they'd met for the second time, had been discussed many times over the years, and dismissed. They were her past, they were before she had met him. Unable to determine any other reason for her tears, he had no choice; he had to ask the question he didn't want to ask.

'This Jose Wonders…' he began, hoping that she'd laugh at his words. She didn't, she squealed and howled, and continued to cry into his chest. He said nothing, he didn't move. He was like a statue, simply standing and holding her, and wishing that he really was a statue, that his heart, at least, could be stone. All he could do was hold her, and wait for her to say the words which he was certain would break his heart. After several hours, during which time the clock on his wall moved forwards by only a couple of minutes, she stepped back and looked up into his face. Drying her tears, she took a deep breath, and began.

'Oh, Mark. I'm so sorry,' she began. 'When I got back from the states, I lied to you.' He felt the first cracks appear in his aching heart.

She stepped back and held up a tiny phial of what appeared to be water. 'I want you to know everything that happened. I'll take this. It's Veritaserum,' she announced. 'Ask me anything and I'll tell you the truth. I know I've been stupid. I know that I shouldn't have lied.'

She pulled the stopper from the phial, but before she could drink it, he snatched it from her hand and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and smashed.

'Whit in Merlin's name dae ye think yer daein',' he asked angrily.

Lavender's violet eyes were full of tears and bewilderment. He took a good look at her. She should be at work, but she wasn't in uniform, instead she wore a denim tunic dress. Her eyes, under the make-up, were puffy. She had been crying before she got here. She still wore the ring he'd given her in London, the night before she went to the USA, and she was wearing the pendant he'd bought her for Christmas. The silver key danced above her breasts on its silver chain.

'Veritaserum!' he raged. 'It looks like water, and it smells like water. Fur all I ken it may be water. Or ye might hae taken an antidote.'

'I…' she began. She looked frightened. He had never frightened her before, and the look in her eyes was enough to make him try to calm down.

'Damn it, Lavender,' he told her. 'What I mean is… Well… We're engaged! If ye …' He took a deep breath and moderated his accent. 'If you love me you should be able to tell me the truth without it. If you can't, what's the point in us being together? Now, tell me! Is the article right? Did you leave his room wearing one of his shirts?'

'Yes but…'

She got no further. Mark staggered back against the wall, his anger overwhelmed by despair as her words pierced his heart and shattered it. His legs buckled; he slid to the floor and put his head in his hands. He felt her kneel by his side, and felt her hands cover his. Taking a deep, uneven breath, he pushed her away.

'Shit,' she said. 'This is my fault.'

'We can agree on that,' he mumbled from behind his hands as he unsuccessfully tried to hide his tears. 'Bloody hell, Lavender! Why? When I proposed, all you needed to do was say no.'

'It's not like that. I…' she paused, and fought back. 'I said yes because I wanted to say yes, you bloody useless idiot. I love you! I didn't… We didn't… Yes, I was stupid, Mark, but not that stupid. Not quite. I said I lied to you. I did, but I didn't sleep with him. Honestly, I didn't!'

Mark rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and looked into the equally tear-stained face of his fiancée. 'Tell me,' he ordered, sighing.

* * *

At first she'd been amused by him. He called her ma'am, and opened doors for her. He had constantly told her how beautiful she was, too. He admired her hair, her lips, her eyes and her nose. He complimented her in a way Mark never had. She'd waved her engagement ring under his nose, but he'd swatted it away with a smile, telling her, 'He's on the other side of the world.'

She had mentioned him in her letter to Mark, and she'd made a joke of it. Now, however, on her last night in Washington DC, she was allowing him to lead her up to his hotel room for "a night cap". He had his arm around her, an arm which was more muscular than Mark's. But he wasn't tall, not like Mark. Jose was no taller than Seamus.

It was the evening of Friday the fifteenth of February and she was arm in arm with someone who wasn't Mark for the first time in years. It was Mark's fault; the darker side of her drink befuddled mind said with malevolent reassurance. He only had himself to blame.

The previous morning she'd been woken by a delivery of flowers, two dozen roses. She had assumed they were from Mark, until she read the card, "Be mine, JP". She checked at reception. Mark hadn't even sent her a card! He had forgotten her! She was perfectly at liberty to forget him. It served him right!

Jose had wined her and dined her, and then he had wined her some more. She could barely stand and somewhere in the back of her mind she realised that she was very, very, drunk, and that she shouldn't be doing this. The thought grew stronger, and it fought its way to her mouth.

'I shouldn't be doing this,' she said.

'You are beautiful, Lavender,' he told her. 'You are a perfect English rose, and you deserve a perfect night of freedom before you are permanently tied to just one man.'

Jose opened the door and ushered her into his hotel room. 'Bourbon?' he asked as he followed her into the room. For a moment her sozzled brain wondered why he was offering her a chocolate biscuit, but then she remembered that bourbon was what the Americans called their whiskey.

She shook her head, and the room began to spin. He stepped forwards and kissed her. He was too small. She was in her heels and he was only a couple of inches taller than she was. She'd become used to facing a chest, to looking up for a kiss.

Firmly and forcefully, he pushed his tongue between her lips. For an instant, she responded, almost overwhelmed by his passion. He definitely wasn't Mark, and as he stepped back and smiled a brilliant white smile she realised why. It wasn't a loving, caring smile, it was a lustful one.

'No!' she told him.

The situation took on a strange, almost dream-like quality. 'You don't mean that,' he said. He grabbed her shoulder and pushed her back against the wall.

She watched him draw his wand and touch it to the hem of her little black dress. Suddenly, she was in her underwear, gauzy black lace which covered almost nothing. At that moment her many concerns coalesced into alarm. She knew that her presence in his room was a very big mistake. Forgetting her Auror training, she simply tried to cover herself: one arm across her chest; the other hand, which held her clutch bag, over her groin.

He'd been about to pounce, but he was distracted. Releasing her shoulder he took a step back. He was staring at her belly, at the five ragged claw scars she'd received from Greyback during The Battle. He looked horrified.

Overwhelmed by anger at both herself and him, she finally came fully to her senses. Pulling her wand from her clutch bag, she silently hit him with a full Body-Bind. She looked calmly down at the man lying rigid at her feet, and suppressed the urge to kick him. Opened her bag, she realised that she'd left her Auror wallet in her uniform coat. The wallet, with its Undetectable Extension Charm, contained spare clothes and a lot of other useful items too.

'You _Vanished_ my dress,' she told Jose angrily. 'It was expensive, damn it!' She paused and shook her head, again making herself dizzy. Staggering into his bathroom, she ran the cold tap, and splashed water over her face. It helped, but not much.

She stared at her scars in his bathroom mirror. They had gone unmentioned for years, because the only person who saw them was Mark, and they did not bother him.

'You fought in the Battle. You were almost disembowelled by a werewolf. I'm simply glad that you're here with me.' His words drifted through her mind. 'Besides, there are a lot of more interesting things for me to look at.'

Mark's words twisted her stomach, and she felt the need to vomit. She turned, but did not make it to the toilet. She retched and noisily regurgitated most of the expensive meal he'd bought her. When it was over she rinsed her mouth, spat, and splashed more water on her face. She pulled out her wand to clean up the stinking mess she'd left in his bathroom, but had second thoughts and decided to leave it.

Walking back out into his bedroom, she stepped over his body and began to look through his wardrobes. She soon found a thick, white shirt and pulled it on. After rolling up the sleeves she found a wide black leather belt in one of the drawers. She tried to fasten it tightly around her waist, but it was too big for her so instead she set it at an angle across hip and waist. After examining herself in the mirror she stared down at his still stiff and supine form.

'I'm very, very, drunk' she told him. 'You were going to take advantage of that, you bastard. When I get back to my hotel, I'm going to check to make certain that you haven't used a potion. If you have…' She left the threat unspoken, stepped back over him, and headed for the door.

'I'm leaving. And you are going to say nothing about this to anyone,' she told him. 'The full Body-Bind will wear off, eventually. You'll be able to move again in the morning.'

* * *

Lavender was kneeling in front of him, her face stained with mascara, eyeliner, and tears.

'I didn't know you were in St Mungo's until I got home,' she admitted. 'You were in agony, on Skele-Gro because of a stupid domestic dispute in Ha-wick which got out of hand.'

Mark didn't correct her pronunciation.

'You didn't send me a Valentines card because you were in hospital, and… You were in agony, Mark, and I'd been stupid and I'd told him not to tell anyone. I… I saw you lying in hospital and I couldn't tell you. I just couldn't,' she admitted. 'I didn't want to hurt you, to upset you.'

'It would have been less of a hurt and upset than this mess,' he told her.

'I was an idiot,' she admitted. She pulled the engagement ring from her finger and offered it to him. He took it in silence. When she made to remove the pendant, he grabbed her hands and stopped her.

'Had he used a potion?' Mark asked her.

'No,' she whispered sadly. 'All he did was get me drunk.'

'But not drunk enough,' said Mark. 'Sometimes you are an idiot, Lavender. And sometimes I am, too. We simply need to remember that.' He reached forwards and gently ran his fingers across her clavicle to grasp the pendant. 'You still have the key to my heart. I… I think that you always will. So perhaps you should keep this, too.' He handed her the ring.

'I bought it for you. It's yours. Do what you want with it. Keep it, sell it, or wear it, it's up to you. But if you decide to wear it, please remember one thing.'

'What?' she whispered.

'I never want to go through this again.'

'Me neither,' she said, slipping on the ring.


End file.
